


Company for the Waiting

by parsley_sage_rosemary_and_thyme4tea



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Harry and Draco banter which morphs into them complimenting Neville, Harry is suffering from depression, M/M, Multi, Neville is a wonderful friend and is very good at taking care of people, critique of the Hogwarts House system, oranges and soft singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:53:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22765042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parsley_sage_rosemary_and_thyme4tea/pseuds/parsley_sage_rosemary_and_thyme4tea
Summary: green lightthe promise of connection and commitmentburning impressions, questions, passionsa short exploration of life, death, and love
Relationships: Neville Longbottom/Draco Malfoy, Neville Longbottom/Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20
Collections: HP Triad!Fest





	Company for the Waiting

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt “a soulmate AU where a person’s eyes glow a certain colour when their soulmate is thinking of them”. This is the first time I've participated in a fest and I'm very excited to be here! I hope you enjoy your time with this story!

Green means life. And death. The two go hand in hand. Harry thrums the knowledge over and over in his head, to the point where it barely registers as conscious thought, instead merely a part of the background noise of his mind. Grey matter - he sometimes wonders what it would be like to see the world in blacks and whites and greys (with perhaps a sprinkling of pink every now and again, just to know…) Grey matters of the soul…soul - we were talking of minds…and eyes. Harry does see colours beyond black and grey and white - out of the window of green eyes - green like a promise. A promise of life. Eyes beneath the thin bolt of lighting which is covered by the dark curtain of his hair, except when it is windblown or tousled by hands, or, in his dreams, gently smoothed and parted. The bolt of lightning has cut a signature for Harry since he was but one year old. Drawing people’s eyes to his forehead, then, hastily, or reverently, or angrily, or fearfully, or curiously, or any way for people to be in a given moment, down to his eyes - the mood of the moment given by circumstances beyond their control. Harry has learned not to take strangers’ reactions to him personally. They have formed their own opinions long before meeting him, and a chance (or orchestrated) encounter will do little to alter them. Harry has found it easier to ignore the scar since it stopped bringing him physical pain, since the magical-psychic connection to Voldemort had broken after his death, but it’s difficult to completely ignore, and he feels guilty for wanting to cover up the mark left by his mother’s love for him. He reminds himself that it’s the unwanted fame and unabashed attention people pay him that he wishes to avoid. Most people do not associate his scar with his mother’s love - they associate it with his survival, and congratulate and thank him for being a saviour, forgetting, as so many do, to think of the source and direct their gratitude there. Harry has only had the opportunity to act as saviour because he himself had been saved…in the moments when he is approached, when he can, he closes his eyes, seeking a brief reprieve from the fervour of the world, and silently thanks his mother, and then father, and then opens his eyes to respond to whoever is calling the name given to him by his parents who had died at the same age he was now. 

Harry reflects, a dully amused reflection - floating on the bob of his head, tipped back to finish a bottle of Butterbeer - how eyes are both drawn to and averted from his scar, (as though it was a sudden flash, zipping down from stormy skies) and yet also how very few spare a thought to the green of his eyes, even when they gleam with magic or emotion or both - the light so commonplace it too is ignored, and Harry laughs hollowly, letting his mouth hang open, leaning back with his eyes closed (trying not to think of the other green light, the one which heralds death), wondering at the capacity for humans to avoid close examination of deep feeling, in favour of living with their senses closed off to the raw fullness of themselves and others. 

Decades ago, someone had conducted secret experiments on eyes, (secret because of the immense taboo against conducting magic on eyes, considered widely as windows to the soul, and therefore nothing to tamper with) trying to understand them, and see (so to speak) if there were any properties which might be enhanced or adapted. The identity of this experimenter remained secret, for they had destroyed all records of their work and no one ever took credit for the phenomenon which spread incessantly, when released from their laboratory. Infecting (or affecting, depending on your perspective) only magical folk, what escaped from the lab was a charm which attached (according to some beliefs) to a person’s soul, changing nothing about them it seemed, other than to give their eyes the property of glowing faintly, as though from some internal light source. Theories abounded as to who was behind it, how it functioned, if it had come about naturally, what it meant, what its implications were - speculations included that the glowing acted as a warning, or that something significant was going to happen to the person, or that they were sick, or about to die, or had had years added to their life, or were in love, or embarrassed, or remembered something, or - ! 

Any one of these hypotheses might have been accurate, but note, dear reader, how the tendency for all of them was to be connected to the self, an inward reflection, considering chiefly how circumstances influence the individual, and not giving much thought to how the individual influences circumstances. In short, we spend so much of our time avoiding contemplating the mortifying ordeal of being known that we often forget to notice when and how we are.

In the first year that it spread throughout the magical populations of Europe, it was one of the main topics of conversation, and there was no small measure of panic involved in the overall reaction. After months, and gradually years, passed and no side effects, adverse or otherwise, were detected, and more and more people discovered the eyes of their friends or themselves glowing with a faint light, a frequent occurrence in some, a rarity in others; after people, having exercised the quintessentially human act of meaning making and each come to their own private or public conclusions about the phenomenon, the frenzy abated, and people went on with their lives, caring no more about glowing eyes than any other unexplained aspect of the human experience.

For his part, Harry was in the camp of firmly affected nonchalance, decidedly not caring or engaging in speculation about what was behind the glowing of eyes. 

Songs waxing poetic about eyes, already abundant, experienced a surge in popularity. Harry, smiling or wincing, depending on his mood, whenever he heard “Bright Eyes” being played - people hearing without listening to the lyrics, or perhaps ignoring their understanding that the song is as much about death as about life. One cannot exist without the other, anyhow. Harry was not in a hurry to die again, but he did feel prepared for death, having already experienced it. He also felt (the thought stifling like a head cold) like one dipped in the River Styx, sans invincibility. Electing for invisibility, he would don the cloak, a gift from Death, when feeling particularly wrapped in it, particularly ghostlike, out of touch from the living world. The cloak was one of his chief sources of physical comfort, and, impervious as it was to damage, allowed him to bare the full breadth of his often turbulent emotions. He would sleep with it wrapped around him. One summer night he stripped bare, covered himself in the cloak and sat outside. He was living alone and no one would have seen him there, even without the cloak, but he did not feel like seeing himself. He found the practice of sleeping outside, sheltered by the cloak and stars, soothing, and made a nightly ritual of it. Winter came and Harry embellished his routine, sat in a pocket of air heated by various charms; flickering blue flames which Hermione was so adept at casting, hovering balls of Lumos which Harry, after some experimenting, found mixed delightfully well with the standard heating spell which customarily required frequent recasting as the heat dissipates into the surrounding environment, but when threaded through a Lumos charm, sustains heat for much longer, and his Patronus. It occurred to him to summon his Patronus when he came to recognise many aspects of the way he was feeling as bearing a stark resemblance to how he felt when Dementors were around. Harry found the blue pulse of his Patronus the most comfortable reminder of his life force - a reassuring presence that eased him into the still ill-fitting notion that it was alright he was alive, alright, too, that being alive had a different tune for him since dying, the rhythm of his heartbeat too distant at times, too present at others, how he didn’t know how to live, and not merely because he had died, but also because it didn’t feel like the world needed him anymore, and he didn’t know what to do. He would levitate the cloak and peer through it into the calm eyes of the stag, glowing as brightly as the rest of its form, and breathe in time to its pulsations, until calm seeped into him, and he could sleep. 

°・.✧.・°・.✧.・°・.✧.・°

Harry’s eyes would glow faintly from time to time at the Dursley’s - he would see the glow occasionally, reflected on the backs of his eyelids, and he thought he might be imagining it, when he screwed up his eyes in concentration to see if he could remember anything of his parents, or the car crash in which they were killed, and he saw green light - but the light showed up at other times as well - it was very embarrassing when it happened at school - Harry only knew of two other kids whose eyes could glow, but they were older than him, and he never got the opportunity to ask if they knew what caused it - the first time they glowed with a faint green light, his uncle had yelled and pointed and called Harry a freak of nature and told Harry never to mention it to anyone - they would have to keep Harry out of sight when entertaining, no one should see him, the freak. The only times his aunt and uncle ever told Dudley not to ask questions were when he was asking about Harry.

Harry was standing on a stool and being fitted with his school robes, looking at the blonde boy on the stool next to him whose eyes began to glow with a faint green light as he addressed Harry with a bored sounding, “Hello. Hogwarts, too?” Harry was very excited to see someone else whose eyes not only glowed, but glowed the same colour as his - perhaps this was another common trait among wizards! - but felt slightly apprehensive about asking. By the time their short conversation had ended, Harry was glad he hadn’t asked - this boy seemed derisive of people entering the magical world with as little prior knowledge as Harry possessed.

Harry rode the Hogwarts express for the first time, sharing a compartment with a tall, freckled, ginger kid with a pet rat named Scabbers, five older brothers and a younger sister and parents who loved him, and who had always known about magic. Harry wanted to ask Ron if he knew anything about glowing eyes, and was trying to summon the courage to broach the topic when there was a knock on the door of their compartment, and a boy entered, looking tearful.

“Sorry,” he said. “But have you seen a toad at all?”

Harry noticed with a jolt of excitement that the boy’s eyes were glowing green, making him the second person he'd encountered whose eyes glowed like his. Feeling relieved, he shook his head along with Ron in response to the boy’s inquiry, who wailed in despair.

“I’ve lost him! He keeps getting away from me!”

“He’ll turn up,” Harry said, trying to reassure him. As long as the toad had gotten on the train, he imagined he’d be found.

“Yes,” the boy said miserably. “Well, if you see him…”

He departed, sliding the door shut behind him. Ron turned to Harry, saying, “Don’t know why he’s so bothered. If I’d brought a toad I’d lose it as quick as I could. Mind you, I brought Scabbers, so I can’t talk.” Harry chuckled nervously, not really listening, as he steeled himself to ask, “Did, did you notice how his eyes…were kind of, well…glowing?” Ron nodded, his mouth full, waiting for Harry to continue. His eyes widened in understanding as Harry hesitated, and he swallowed, hastening to explain.

“Yeah. That’s pretty common in magical communities. Muggles don’t get it-”

“Get? Is it some sort of disease?” Harry asked, trying to hide his growing panic.

“Oh, no! Well, actually, no one knows what causes it, but I think most people whose eyes glow are born with it. Both my mum and dad’s eyes glow. We love debating what it might mean, what causes it. My mum likes to think it’s some very romantic thing - both her and my dad’s eyes are glowing all the time - I used to think everyone’s eyes who glowed looked like a fire, all dark orange with kind of, you know, spits of blue every once in a while, but then I found out that most people have different colours to their glow, if they have one. My mum says neither of them - my parents, that is - neither of their eyes had glowed before they met, and started glowing when they did. She said the glowing started out a lot fainter than it is now and grew stronger as they got to know each other. So they’re both pretty soppy about it, think it’s a physical manifestation of their love or sommat.”

Ron wrinkled his nose and Harry laughed, asking, “What does the rest of your family think it means?”

“Well, we all do think it’s got something to do with having a connection with someone, because my parents’ eyes glow the exact same colours, which apparently only happens with people who are close, and my mum’s idea that it’s all, you know, romantic and stuff, might be true because there’s a column in the Daily Prophet - that’s a paper that prints all kinds of stuff, it's really popular, anyway, there’s a column where people try to connect with other people; usually it’s little descriptions of an interaction or time and place where they saw someone who they want to get to know, and to meet them at such and such a time and place if they also fancy getting to know them. Every issue there’s at least one description of someone’s eye glow, asking for someone to contact them if they have the same one. So even if it’s not romantic, lots of people seem to think it is. Fred says those people are so lonely they’ll use any excuse to try and meet someone. Bill says if they’re lonely, good for them for trying to meet others.”

“What do you say?” Harry asked. Ron shrugged, smiling.

“I dunno. I guess I-”

Just then the door of their compartment slid open, the boy with a misplaced toad back again, this time accompanied by a girl with very bushy brown hair, large front teeth, and a fast, carrying voice, wanting to know if anyone had seen a toad? “Neville’s lost one.”

After conveying the continued lack of toad sightings, there was a round of introductions and Hermione’s eyes took on a faint purple glow shortly before asking Ron, “Do your eyes often glow like that?”

Ron’s eyes widened in shock and he shook his head.

“I’ve never seen eyes glow purple before, but I have read about the phenomenon of glowing eyes - according to the books I read, it seems to only occur in magical people, and seems to be fairly common, so I’m not surprised. It’s quite interesting that yours are only just starting to glow, though. I don’t know if there’s an average age for that to start - mine have never glowed and I don’t imagine they will-”

Harry opened his mouth to tell her that they were, in fact, currently glowing, but Ron cleared his throat aggressively to get his attention and shook his head with a pleading look when he caught Harry’s gaze. Turning to Harry, she added, “Is this the first time yours have glowed, too, then?”

Harry startled, unaware that his eyes were glowing, and said, “Uh, no. Mine have glowed before.”

“Mine have never glowed,” Neville contributed, sounding less tearful than he had before, calmer now that Hermione was helping him. “My gran says-”

“But they’re glowing now!” Hermione interjected, gesturing animatedly at Neville.

“They’re glowing green, just like Harry’s! Oh, I do hope I’m not the only-”

She broke off, embarrassed, and Neville turned to her. Noticing her eyes, he exclaimed, “Yours are glowing too! Kinda…violet-y!”

“They _are_?” Hermione sounded delighted and relieved. Her excitement dissipated as she noticed Ron’s intense state of embarrassment. She cleared her throat awkwardly.

“Well, we’ll be off now. Neville’s toad …well…goodbye.”

After they had closed the door behind them, Ron tentatively asked Harry, “She said my eyes were glowing purple. Were they - I mean, was it - quite a different shade of purple to hers, or…?”

He trailed off, waiting anxiously for Harry’s response.

“It was, uh, well…it looked pretty similar…” Harry said, unwilling to admit what Ron so clearly didn’t want to hear, that they were exactly the same. Ron groaned, burying his head in his hands and mumbled, “Whatever House I’m in, I hope she’s not in it.” 

Harry wanted to ask whether the green of Neville’s glow was more or less the same to his, but had begun to feel as embarrassed as Ron, and so changed the subject. The glow did not fade - Harry saw it briefly every time he blinked. They had passed through several new topics of conversation and Ron was in the midst of explaining various Quidditch strategies when the boy who had been fitted for robes at the same time as Harry entered their compartment, flanked by two large boys who, despite their size, seemed to be around the same age as the rest of them. The blonde boy’s eyes were glowing as they had been at Madam Malkin’s, the glowing increasing slightly in intensity as he introduced himself as “Malfoy, Draco Malfoy” and Harry felt Ron shift uncomfortably next to him, coughing slightly to cover it up. After Scabbers bit Goyle and the three boys made a hasty departure, Ron tells Harry that Malfoy’s family had been in league with Voldemort during his reign of terror and Harry hoped fervently that eyes glowing the same colour did not indicate any sort of connection between people because he did not want to be connected to Malfoy in any way.

Their first feast in the Great Hall, the topic of conversation among the first years turning to glowing eyes - Dean and Seamus sharing their delighted discovery that their eyes glowed the same hearty shade of gold (they had met on the Hogwarts Express and their eyes, never having glowed before, had started glowing and hadn’t stopped since) - Ron, red around the ears, grateful for Hermione being deep in conversation with his brother Percy so that she wasn’t aware of the conversation - Hermione’s eyes glowing and Percy tactfully avoiding informing her of that fact, thinking primly that it was not his place to do so.

Harry confronting Draco in the courtyard, hoping that no one in the audience of their peers notices how their eyes are glowing precisely the same shade of green, the glow strong enough to detect even in the bright sunlight - Harry swooping to catch Neville’s Rememberall in a spectacular dive that gets him a position on the Quidditch team - their eyes glowing again as Harry, clutching the first broomstick of his very own, says, “And it’s really thanks to Malfoy here that I’ve got it.”

Neville’s eyes glowing as he shrinks in terror in Potions lessons, closing his eyes as often as he can in a desperate attempt to minimize the attention he receives - the green glow made far more visible by the darkness of the dungeon. By some unspoken agreement, neither he nor Harry nor Draco ever discuss their shared glow with one another. Harry on edge during every Potions lesson trying to ignore the their matching glows, his vision obscured by the haze of potion fumes - paranoid that Snape will make some cutting remark about their eyes every time he or Neville fail to decipher his minuscule instructions on the blackboard. Harry thinking that if Draco didn't share their glow, if it was just him and Neville, Snape would definitely say something; it was perhaps Draco being in Snape's favour that kept Snape from commenting on their glows. 

Back at the Dursley's after his first year at Hogwarts, his first year with friends, spending most of his time trying to remember every detail of his time at Hogwarts, his isolation from the magical world causing him to doubt if any of it even happened. Away from the distraction of their glowing and other people's opinions, Harry thinks about Neville and Draco's eyes. Neville's remind him of ferns, dipping in and out of shadow. They were like the trees at the edge of the Forbidden Forest - inviting, and concealing so many secrets; it would take work to pass through, to gain trust and get to know that which lay within. Draco's eyes also concealed, but his felt like a lake at winter, frozen over, the life beneath the surface a mystery that Harry wanted to understand. 

Harry hiding in the vanishing cabinet in Borgin and Burkes the summer before his second year, the door opened just a crack though which he could keep an eye on Draco and his father - Draco saying, “…everyone thinks he’s so _smart,_ wonderful _Potter_ with his _scar_ and his _broomstick_ -” It’s dark in the cabinet, but not as dark as the cupboard under the stairs with the flap closed and the lightbulb off, and yet Harry can see the green reflected against the wood of the cabinet as his eyes begin to glow, the light stronger than it had ever been, when he used to strain to see it, never quite knowing if he was imagining it or not.

Harry and Draco paired for a dueling exercise by Snape - their peers whispering around them about their matching glows - the whispers turning to accusations that Harry was the Heir of Slytherin after his ability to communicate with snakes was revealed - people associating their green glow with Slytherin, and citing it as additional proof that Harry was the Heir. No one engaging in these speculations considered Neville closely enough to notice that he shared the glow too.

Ron and Harry disguised as Crabbe and Goyle, trying to determine whether or not Draco was the Heir of Slytherin - Harry worried that his eyes would start glowing and give them away but the effects of the Polyjuice Potion were thorough - they didn't glow. Draco's eyes were glowing their entire encounter, and Harry very nearly gasped when he saw the Slytherin common room. Ripples of green light reflected off grey stone and there were windows through which the Great Lake could be seen - not its surface, but its depths. Draco looked absolutely in his element, as though he were a part of the room, his grey eyes glowing green perfectly matching the walls. Harry felt slightly silly attaching so much importance to colours, but he couldn't help wondering if perhaps he _did_ belong with the Slytherins. He had overheard Neville saying that his eyes had not been glowing much that year...but how fitting that here, beneath the surface of a currently frozen lake, Harry might be able to uncover some of the mysteries Draco was concealing...Draco was not the Heir, and Harry was too focused on him to notice if anything swam past the windows during their short visit. 

Neville’s eyes glowing as he trembles and breaks a teacup in their first Divination lesson, Harry trying to convey in a sympathetic look that he didn’t appreciate how Professor Trelawney had taken advantage of Neville’s easily flustered and clumsy nature to try and seem impressive. 

Neville’s eyes bright and glowing in their first Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson of the year (taught by a Death Eater disguised as a retired Auror...a stolen eye that could see through Invisibility Cloaks) - Harry trying to blink as infrequently as possible - the green flash present every time he closes his eyes, a reminder all the more painful now that the curse has been demonstrated before them - afraid to close his eyes in bed, lest he continue to be haunted by it.

After Cedric's death...green light ever present in his mind’s eye, and unbearably reflected against his eyelids every time he blinks. He barely sleeps at all that summer.

Harry telling himself that he’s so fascinated by Draco and thinks about him so frequently because he wants to determine what, if any, connection might exist between them, since most people seem to agree on identical glow colours denoting a connection. When Dumbledore tells Harry about the prophesy, and how it could have been Neville marked saviour, Harry thinks that explains their connection but still doesn’t understand his connection with Draco. 

°・.✧.・°・.✧.・°・.✧.・°

One of those dreary, muddled winter days when Harry felt leaden and unable to summon the strength to do anything other than cast the necessary charms to keep from freezing, the flames in his fireplace burned suddenly bright green, and Neville’s face appeared in them. Harry had been sitting cross legged on the floor in front of it, hunched over and shivering. He sat up quickly, wincing as his muscles ached, sore from holding the same cramped position for too long.

“Hi Harry. Can I come over?”

Harry huffed a breath which puffed out, visible condensation in the stale air, surprised by the sudden request (an invitation for company framed as a request so Harry would be less likely to decline the offer) without so much as a preliminary how are you. But Harry supposed Neville might be able to tell, and wanted to help. His chest felt tight and he nodded, unable to muster a verbal reply, and stood up and back to give Neville space to walk through the flames.

“Get ready to be hugged, I’m coming through,” Neville declared, and Harry choked out a laugh as Neville emerged from the fire and enveloped Harry in a deep embrace. Harry’s exhaustion came crashing through and he staggered. Neville led them to Harry’s couch where he sat down and gently placed Harry’s head on his lap.

“Here, put your feet up - that’s it, well done.”

Harry wanted to thank Neville for his caring understanding but felt too tired to even grunt and shut his eyes tight, filled with embarrassment and gratitude and an unidentifiable bone-deep ache that permeated his entire being. Neville began to gently stroke his hair and Harry felt the ache well up in a cacophony of feeling, tears forming in his eyes that didn’t have a chance to fall as sleep overcame him. 

°・.✧.・°・.✧.・°・.✧.・°

Neville paused, his hand in Harry’s hair, as he felt the other man relax, settling his weight fully on Neville’s lap, breathing deeper until he began to snore. Neville carefully withdrew his hand from Harry’s head so as not to wake him, and leaned back on the couch. Harry had been holding his wand when Neville had stepped through the fire and Neville had gently taken and placed it on the table beside the couch. His own wand was secured in the interior pocket of his jacket. It was still very early, not yet daybreak, (Neville had firecalled so early because he’d been unable to sleep and remembered Harry mentioning that he usually had a difficult time sleeping, and had wanted to see how he was doing) and Neville allowed himself to nod off. He awoke around an hour later, his stirring rousing Harry as well, who absentmindedly pressed a kiss to Neville’s jean-clad thigh. Neville’s heart skipped a beat and Harry stiffened, as though realising what he’d just done. Neville ran his fingers through Harry’s hair again to try and reassure him that it was perfectly alright. After a moment, to his relief, Harry relaxed. 

“Do you feel like eating something?” Neville asked gently, hoping Harry would say yes; he wasn’t sure how frequently Harry had been eating lately. Harry was silent for a short while, then said slowly, “No…but I have some oranges if you want one.”

“I’m going to eat an orange, and you’re going to share it with me.”

“Alright,” Harry agreed, smiling, his eyes closed.

Neville went to the kitchen and brought back a bowl containing three oranges. He set it down on the table in front of them, taking one of the oranges, and returned to his seat next to Harry on the couch. “I’d welcome you back on my lap, but I don’t want to risk squirting juice in your eyes,” Neville remarked, peeling the orange as he spoke. “That’s alright. I mean, thank you. I, uh…” Harry floundered, and gratefully accepted the fruit which Neville held out to him, waving his wand to vanish the peel as he did so. Juice was dripping down both their hands and arms, spilling onto the couch, and Harry felt like apologising, then remembered they were in his own house, and he didn’t mind juice getting everywhere; he could clean it up easily enough, and for now, the fragrance, along with Neville’s company, had the most rejuvenating effect on him than anything had done for what felt like a very long time. It was not long before they had finished each of their orange halves, both of them licking the residual juice on their fingers. Harry considered casting Scourgify but wanted to savour the stickiness and sweet lingering aroma. It had been too long since he’d been so present to tactile sensations. 

Neville smiled somewhat bashfully at Harry, and seemed to be steeling himself to say something. Harry waited, biting back the fond smile which was trying to take over his face. Presently, Neville ventured, “There’s a song that I heard recently that I liked a lot - I ended up memorising the lyrics and I - well, it’s called ‘Bowl of Oranges’ which is why I just thought of it - would you like to hear some of it, maybe? It’s okay if you -” he paused mid sentence as Harry began to laugh gently, and shoved him playfully. “I would love to hear it, Nev. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you sing.” Neville’s blush deepened and he seemed about to say something self-deprecating but then thought better of it, saying instead, “Well. That’s easily remedied.” He patted his lap, adding, “You’re welcome to resume your previous position, if you like.” Harry, who had wanted very much to do that very thing, lay back down with his head on Neville’s lap.

“Could I - I think it’d be more comfortable for me to…” Harry indicated shifting his body so he could curl his legs, lying on his side, one ear pressed against Neville’s leg, and Neville said, “Of course, make yourself comfortable.”

“Thanks,” Harry whispered and Neville cleared his throat and began to sing softly, “The rain, it started tappin’ / On the window near my bed / There was a loophole in my dreamin’ / So I got out of it / And to my surprise my eyes were wide and already open / Just my nightstand and my dresser / Where those nightmares had just been / So I dressed myself and left then / Out into the grey streets / But everything seemed different / And completely new to me / The sky, the trees, houses, buildings, even my own body…”

Harry closed his eyes and shifted slightly in discomfort, focused on the tensing of muscles and the rhythmic rise and fall of Neville’s chest. A few seconds passed before words began filtering back into his mind, and he was able to return his attention to the lyrics as Neville sang, “I said there’s nothing that I can do for you you can’t do for yourself / He said, ‘Oh, yes you can, just hold my hand, I think that that would help…”

Neville paused suddenly in his singing and Harry shifted his head, opening his eyes to see a hand held out above him. Neville was smiling faintly, a question in his eyes, and Harry accepted the invitation, lifting his hand to meet Neville’s. They lay their clasped hands on Harry’s chest, Harry closing his eyes tight against the waves of emotions which threatened to overwhelm his senses. Neville resumed singing, the smile evident in his voice, and Harry had only the capacity to feel in that moment - every point of connection between them, the even rumble of Neville’s voice, the warmth - he’d felt so cold before but hadn’t felt the chill since Neville arrived - the immensity of love, love, love, love - trembling with the force of it and chuckling weakly, in awe, as Neville sang softly, “So that’s how I learned the lesson / That everyone’s alone / And your eyes must do some raining / If you’re ever gonna grow…”

Harry must have dozed off because suddenly he was waking up, and Neville had stopped singing. He whispered something and Harry, thinking he must have been asleep a short enough time that Neville could be talking to him, said, trying and failing to sound as though he’d not just woken up, “Whatdyusay?”

Neville started; evidently he’d known Harry had been asleep. Neville was silent, and Harry saw, through his bleary haze, that he was blushing.

“Oh. I thought you were talking to me. Never mind, you don’t have to tell-”

“Well…it’s true I wasn’t talking _to_ you, but the words were…well, they were rather… _for_ you…”

Neville was making a valiant effort at not succumbing to mortification, a skill at which Harry had noticed he’d been steadily improving.

“It was the ending of a poem. My friend Hannah - she and I share poems with each other that we come across and appreciate. She shared a poem called “The Orange” with me recently that’s very nice; the narrator is enjoying the simple pleasures in their life - the ending of the poem really struck me, and…that’s what I said, just now, the ending of that poem.”

Neville took a deep breath and Harry held his, finding himself unable to look away from Neville’s open countenance. Neville’s next words, spoken with surety and strength, set Harry’s heart pounding in his chest.

“I love you. I’m glad I exist.”

“I love you,” Harry replied, the faintest whisper, barely audible; easier to say as a quote, as an answering echo, but the truth of the sentiment made itself known in the crack of his voice and Neville, his smile widening, repeated, “I love you.”

A pause, the words lingering in the air, waiting for the company of their companion phrase, and Neville prompted, with all the patience in the world, “Are you glad to exist?”

The knot at Harry’s core came undone, the tears he’d held back for so long spilling over as he crumpled into a shuddering wreck. Neville asked, “Can I hold you?” and Harry nodded, sobbing uncontrollably. Neville wrapped him in a secure embrace, careful not to restrict his ability to breathe and they sat there for an indeterminate amount of time, Neville not speaking except to murmur every once in a while, “Just breathe. That’s it. That’s all you have to do. Just breathe.” 

°・.✧.・°・.✧.・°・.✧.・°

Harry couldn't tell how much time had passed by the time he stopped crying. Eventually, he was able to sit up and blow his nose and Neville asked, "Would you like it if Draco joined us?" The light filtering through Harry's drawn curtains had adopted a brighter quality - dawn had passed; the day was starting. Harry nodded slowly, thoughts pooling in a corner of his mind that he was too exhausted to access. Neville gently extricated himself from Harry and got up from the sofa, walking to the fireplace. The flames had diminished but had not gone out completely and maintained their green glow - the connection was still open. With a wave of his wand the flames roared upward, hissing and crackling like some magnificent emerald creature.

Looking back at Harry, Neville said apologetically, "I'm going to have to raise my voice."

Harry nodded.

"That's fine."

"Hopefully he's within earshot."

Facing the flames again, Neville called through, "DRACO? CAN YOU HEAR ME?"

They didn't have to wait long before Draco's yawning face appeared in the fire.

"Neville? Where are you? I just woke up. I thought we weren't doing anything today."

"Change of plans. We're visiting with Harry!" Neville said cheerily and Harry buried his face in the back of his couch. A charged silence followed, during which Neville and Draco had a rapid-fire conversation, and then Draco was stepping over Harry's hearth. 

°・.✧.・°・.✧.・°・.✧.・°

" _How_ you manage to maintain your beauty when you keep such outlandish hours is beyond me," Draco drawled and Harry, his voice muffled by couch cushions, replied, "It's a talent of mine."

Draco snorted and sat down at the end of the couch by Harry's feet. Neville drew up a chair and sat down in front of them.

"What would all the people who consider you to be the model of a perfect Gryffindor - which isn't a compliment, incidentally - think of you now, I wonder?"

"DRACO!" began Neville, outraged, but Harry rolled over and sat up, and Draco saw, to his relief, that he was smiling.

"Neville is clearly the perfect Gryffindor, so whoever calls me that is mistaken."

"Neville is hardly the perfect model of a Gryffindor - he's never foolhardy or reckless or-"

"I agree. He's perfect _in spite_ of being a Gryffindor. All the more impressive."

Draco was taken aback but quickly rallied.

"Ah, yes, _spite_. Well done, my dear, you aren't without your Slytherin graces, I see."

He and Harry chortled as Neville rolled his eyes dramatically and said, "ALL RIGHT, that's enough, thank you." He considered for a moment and then added, "Besides, if any Gryffindor is going to be labeled perfect I think that honour undeniably belongs with McGonagall."

Harry conceded the point with an appreciative nod. "Quite right." He appeared contemplative for a moment then said, with a significant look at Neville, "You know, I don't think it's a coincidence that two of the best members of the House were both..." Neville shook his head, at a loss as to what Harry was trying to convey and Harry covered his face with a hand so Draco couldn't see what he mouthed to Neville, who jumped and shouted, "WHAT? I never knew McGonagall was a Hatstall!!" He froze, realising, and then turned slowly to face Draco, who was trying his best not to let the surprise and hurt he felt show too plainly on his face.

"You never told me you were a Hatstall," he said, as calmly as he could manage.

"Oh, Draco, it's not that I - didn't, trust you, to be - sensitive with the information, and it's not that I'm ashamed, because I'm not! It's just..."

"I'd like to know what happened, but only if you...want to tell me," Draco said softly, hoping fervently that Neville would tell him.

Neville smiled and nodded, taking a shaky breath. "Well, it wasn't something that I had planned on sharing with anyone - and I don't actually remember telling Harry because we were both pissed at the time, but the next morning, after we drank some hangover potion, Harry assured me my secret was safe with him. But anyway. When I was being Sorted, the Sorting Hat ran through the merits of the various Houses and pretty quickly came to the conclusion that I belonged in Gryffindor, but I begged it to Sort me in Hufflepuff, where I could live as myself and not worry about living up to some standard for who I was meant to be. My nan was always pressuring me to live up to my parents’ legacies, and berating me for my shortcomings. I had been hoping to escape some of that pressure for how I was supposed to be. In the end, the Hat insisted that I would find purpose and friendship and love in Gryffindor. I wasn’t sure, the whole time at Hogwarts, and afterwards, I was never quite sure if it had been the best - if it’s the best thing to spend the most time with people like you. And of course, we’re all different, and any number of combinations would have - but - but _this-_ ” he gestured between the three of them, “-who knows how we might have gotten on if we’d been Sorted differently? Honestly, do you want to know what I think?” Harry and Draco nodded, both captivated. “Well, the more gracious part of me thinks that grouping kids can help to facilitate the forming of connections, but even that part of me acknowledges the fact that by sorting them according to certain traits, and making them think those traits are somehow inherently preferable, or worse, _superior_ , to others…it sets the precedent for rivalries and, well, I mean, they actively encourage competition! It _is_ possible to have competition without antagonism, but the way the House system is set up makes antagonism nearly impossible to avoid. I mean, think of how much of _our_ antagonism was based on our Houses! It might not have been as bad if we’d not belonged to the two Houses with the most…robust…”

“Passionate?” Harry suggested and Draco groaned, covering his face with his hands. Neville hummed a laugh and continued, “If we hadn’t been a part of the two Houses with the most _passionate_ rivalry at Hogwarts…well. Who’s to say we wouldn’t have judged each other by the measure of our humanity rather than arbitrarily chosen traits we were taught to idolise?”

He finished, his eyes glowing the brightest of all of them and Harry and Draco were both speechless, dazed by the ramification of these truths (previously unconsidered but now so clear) and the reverberations of the love coursing through them, insisting, with every beat of their hearts, to be made known. Neville examined Draco and Harry, who were both staring at him, a storm of emotions on their faces, and shook his head fondly.

“Come here, you berks,” he said, pulling them into a hug, pressing a kiss to first Draco’s then Harry’s temple. They stayed there for a while, each privately thinking it was the best hug they’d ever experienced. Suddenly, Neville raised his head and said, “I nearly forgot! Harry, how do you - I mean, I never knew McGonagall was a Hatstall.” Harry sniffed, wiping his eyes and said, “Oh, yeah. I didn’t learn that from her directly; I read it on her Chocolate Frog card. What she did tell me directly was that Dumbledore’s portrait had convinced her of the merits of being commemorated by a Chocolate Frog card - that it was a wonderful way of seeming less intimidating, more approachable to students-”

“Oh, McGonagall will always be intimidating - in the best way, of course,” Draco interjected.

“I imagine she’s always been intimidating, even as a student,” Harry mused and Draco cringed, waving his hands as he said, “Ohhh, why is it so strange to imagine McGonagall young?!”

“Maybe because it forces you to recognise that she’s hot,” Harry suggested.

Neville startled into a fit of laughter and Draco moaned, “Not this _again_!”

“I shan’t rest until you acknowledge that people with their shit together as much as McGonagall are inherently hot!”

“Competence _is_ an attractive quality,” Neville choked out through his laughter and Harry waved a hand grandly.

“ _Thank_ you, Neville.”

“You just like people who tell you what to do kindly,” said Draco, aware he was being a trifle insensitive, but wanting to bring about an end to this topic of conversation.

Harry was feeling fortified enough to process this jab as playful, and responded lightly, “I like people who help, and who care.”

There was a short stretch of silence, followed by Harry adding, “Also, for the record, just because I can appreciate that someone is attractive doesn’t mean that I’m attracted _to_ -”

“I know, I know. Might we _please_ talk about something else now?”

Harry smiled, nodding, with an exaggerated, “But of course!”

Draco moved as though to shove Harry playfully but paused halfway to Harry’s shoulder, his hand hanging in the air between them. Before he could withdraw it, Harry slotted his fingers through Draco’s. Draco’s face heated up, and he stared at their joined hands, unable to bring himself to look at Harry’s face. Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw Neville leaning back slowly into his chair, as if to give them space and to make himself comfortable for the show. He glanced at him. Neville’s features were that of calm amusement. Draco glared at him hastily, trying to convey in a second that they would discuss this in depth later, and then turned back to Harry, his brief, wordless conversation with Neville having made him forget that he was avoiding eye contact. Harry's eyes were bright, the green glow strong and prominent in the dimly lit room. He was slightly flushed and looked happier than he’d seemed all day - perhaps in a very long time. Draco wasn’t sure, but he swore Harry looked…relieved, somehow. Draco swallowed, realising that neither Neville nor Harry seemed inclined to speak, and asked Harry what he wanted to know but hadn’t known how to ask. He tried phrasing it as casually as possible, hoping that Harry would give an honest answer.

“So…what have you been up to?”

Harry’s smile froze in place and Draco worried he would avoid answering but then Harry slowly retrieved his wand from the table and murmured, “Priori Incantatem.” Out of his wand flowed so much blue light that Draco bewilderedly thought of ghosts until they formed coherent shapes - Harry’s stag Patronus, reiterated a dozen times, each one, as it cantered out, followed by countless blue flames, which floated around the room like so many will-o’-the-wisps. Draco had never been surrounded by Patronuses before - the effect was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. He felt an overwhelming sense of calm; he felt protected, and loved, and held, and cared for. Slowly, as if in a dream, his surroundings adopted a distorted quality, as though he were viewing it all through mist, and he thought fleetingly of Dementors, but then became aware that tears were streaming down his cheeks, which seemed at odds with the calm radiating through him, as though by osmosis from the moment, which moved like a pocket in time, languidly, and with the ephemeral clarity of a dream being remembered.

Neville reached out to him and Harry, and the three of them pressed their foreheads together, breathing slow and deep, savouring this novel feeling of pure tranquility. Their eyes were all closed so they didn’t see one of the Patronuses making its way toward them, but they felt it when it joined with them - light, but internal, its essence that of clarity, brightness and warmth. They opened their eyes simultaneously and stared in awe at one another’s faces. Their tears were all glowing - precisely the same shade of green as the glowing of their eyes, which was stronger now than it had ever been before. The Patronus rejoined its brethren in the circle of light surrounding the three wizards, who looked at each other and knew, each in their own way, finally knew with certainty that they were connected, and that it didn’t matter why; they had found and were creating home with each other. They would continue to learn how to love, supporting each other, following the river of death, which is also the river of life, downstream, filled with gratitude and love all the way. 

**Author's Note:**

> The song "Bright Eyes" by Art Garfunkel is about death, which I'm confident most people who listen to or read the lyrics know, so other people were not ignoring their understanding, as Harry thought, but rather embracing it, and processing it with that song. "Following the river of death downstream" is SUCH a good line! And yes, my use of the line "people hearing without listening" was indeed a reference to "The Sound of Silence" by Simon and Garfunkel. The song "Bowl of Oranges" by the band Bright Eyes was written, as far as I'm aware, after 2001, which is when this story's present day takes place, so let's pretend that this is an AU in which the world was graced with that song several years earlier.
> 
> When I was nine I had a dream in which I was sitting in a tent with Neville and felt an incredible sense of peace and friendship, which perhaps doesn't sound extraordinary, but I felt so lonely and Neville was there for me - it made a very strong impact on me. The final scene of this fic, when they are surrounded by Patronuses - which, incidentally, I suspect that a Patronus must be cast anew and could not actually be returned by way of Priori Incantatem as I had them reappear here, but at this point Harry has been conjuring his Patronus on a nightly basis for months and it has become an extension of his nature, a grounding force, his strength externalized so as to allow him to better internalize it. In short, it is no longer an intense undertaking for Harry to summon his Patronus, and perhaps all Priori Incantatem does is cast spells by using the magic of the caster, from just one incantation, recasting the last several spells it remembers the rhythm of magic for. The last twelve bars it sung. (I decided, for Harry, Neville, and Draco, that twelve is their number, mostly because of the part in the first book when Harry tells Neville, “You’re worth twelve of Malfoy.” and when Neville tells Draco - on the twelfth line of the page in my copy which is a very satisfying coincidence - at the Quidditch match where they’re both watching Harry, “I’m worth twelve of you, Malfoy.”)
> 
> That was quite a long tangent. Anyway, that sense of calm permeating the room was partially inspired by my childhood dream. I hope you were able to feel and enjoy some of that peacefulness.
> 
> A Hatstall is, officially speaking, when the Sorting Hat takes five or more minutes deliberating on a student's House, and while McGonagall was a true Hatstall (five and a half minutes) Neville was not, BUT since his Sorting did take longer than most of the students in his year, I've decided to ignore the technicalities of the term. Neville identifies as a Hatstall and it is important to his sense of self, especially as it's helped him articulate many of the follies of the House system. Incidentally, I can appreciate the four Houses as celebrations of our differences, and if you're a proud Hufflepuff or Slytherin or Ravenclaw or Gryffindor, or some combination of them, that's awesome!
> 
> "The Orange" is a lovely poem by Wendy Cope. It's twelve (!) lines long and I recommend reading it if you have not yet had that pleasure.
> 
> If you feel like your mind is Azkaban and you can't escape, please find someone you can talk to who can help. There are people out there who can be your Patronus - you do not have to go through life alone. You will get through this. Let us all appreciate the Nevilles and Lunas in our lives and try to be them for others.


End file.
